“Mr. Hunt,” she said sweetly, her gaze poisonous, “why don’t you go and—” “Miss Peyton!”

“Dispense your words of wisdom, then, as it appears that I’m going to hear them whether I wish to or not.”

“Despite his flaws, one has to admit that he is a whale-sized catch.” “I’ll be thrilled when someone harpoons him,” Lillian muttered, making the other two laugh.

A match between you and him would be a disaster.” She turned her head to stare at him with slitted eyes. “Why?” “You’d run roughshod over him until his gentlemanly soul was left in a battered pile at your feet.”

“No one can see you, dear. Be as sick as you want. Daisy and I are here to take care of you.” “That’s right,” Daisy chimed in from behind her. “True friends never mind holding your hair back while you cast up your crumpets.”

“Every time I see you,” he murmured, “I think you couldn’t possibly become any more beautiful—and you always prove me wrong.”

“I’m not short,” Daisy muttered. “Short women are never mysterious, or elegant, or pursued by handsome men. And they’re always treated like children. I refuse to be short.”

She smiled at Annabelle apologetically. “Sorry, dear. But you must admit that the English are willing to eat things that make Americans flee the table with screams of horror.”

Lillian smiled at her, seeming to identify with the note of grim determination in Annabelle’s voice. “I like you,” she announced, and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs with a negligence that was rather inappropriate for a girl in her first season.